Somewhere in the Fearamid
by WDW
Summary: In which Stan and Ford are only able to talk about their issues while standing half-naked in a hell pyramid prison. Which, for the record, was not where Stan expected to end up when he woke up this morning. Typical. Just typical.


Maybe it's the look of utter resignation on his brother's face, an expression that - despite everything Stan might claim otherwise - elicited a white-hot pang of protective anger within him. Or maybe, it was the fact that the kids had put themselves in mortal danger to buy them precious minutes of time, and Stan Pines would rather be damned than let them down - than to let them realize he was hardly the hero they thought he was.

He gritted his teeth. "Can it, poindexter. We're _not_ doing that."

"Do you think I _want_ to let him back into my mind?" Ford pleaded, voice strained. "After everything he has done to me in the past -"

He cut off with a shake of his head. "…Stanley, the moment I make the deal, take the children and - _run_. Don't look back. Don't try to save me. It's not worth it - not this time."

Stan choked out a bark of disbelieving laughter, past the sudden, heavy lump in his throat. "Geez, ya really are the dumbest genius in the world, huh? If that thing wins - do ya really think there's anywhere the kids and I can run _to_ where he won't find us?"

"…Yes, I know that, Stanley." Ford swallowed. "But it's still the best option we have. I can try to negotiate with him for your lives and safeties. He has a special weakness for any opportunity to hurt - to humiliate me more. If I beg…"

Stan's thoughts sputtered to a halt at the mention of a… weakness, huh? He looked up at his brother closely, the beginnings of a plan formulating itself in his mind. From all the deals this 'Cipher' guy seemed to be making, the demon sure sounded like an experienced con man. The type to ferret out every loophole in a contract for their own benefit.

Thing is… so was Stan.

His brother seemed to regrouped himself. "Stanley, there's no time to argue. We have to figure out a way for you and the children to escape - "

"You're right," Stan interrupted, "there _is_ no time to argue." He paused for a moment, trying to figure out the best way to make his idea sound better than it was, then gave it up. "Take off your clothes, Sixer. I got a plan."

Ford stared back at him, mouth open in a 'o' of complete confusion. Under better circumstances, Stan would have taken a picture for blackmail.

He had already shrugged off his own suit jacket and was in process of unbuttoning his dress shirt when his brother finally spluttered out a reply through his disbelief. "Stanley, what - what are you _doing_? Have you gone - "

"Geez, Ford. Have some faith in me. The only way to beat that thing is to erase him from someone's mind, right? And the only mind he wants to go into is _yours_."

Stan stepped out of his pants nonchalantly. His brother averted his gaze. "So, we're gonna have to switch. I'll put on your clothes, you put on mine, and I'll make that deal with him while pretendin' to be you. After that, you erase him. Good enough for you, poindexter?"

"No. _No_ , this is an insane idea," Ford said, face pale. "You can't possibly -"

"Damn it, Ford," Stan growled, a flash of old anger sparking into existence. "If you don't think I can fool that thing -"

"It's not that," his brother said slowly. "Stanley, you have to understand… to destroy Bill, I'll have to erase your _mind_."

"Yeah, yeah, you said before. Not like there was much there in the first place." He rolled his eyes. "You can be in charge of my re-education or whatever. Bring me back up to a high school education level."

"Stanley, you don't understand - I'll have to erase _everything_." Stan blinked. "Your entire sense of identity, your whole _life_ -" Ford cut off, a look of pure horror on his face. "…It would kill you, Stanley. Perhaps not physically - though there really is no telling what mental trauma at _that_ scale could do - but… everything that makes you _you_ \- would be _gone_."

The breath caught in Stan's throat. "…Everything?" He repeated weakly, voice cracking despite himself. "Even the kids?"

"Yes," his brother agreed, voice carefully unreadable. "…Even the kids."

"But," Stan tried, "you said ya would've done it if ya didn't have that metal plate in your head - "

"That's because I'm _willing_ to make that sacrifice, Stanley!" Ford hissed at him. "But you - you belong with Dipper and Mabel. I was the one who let Bill into our dimension, and I have to be the one to - "

 _'I have to be the one_ '? Oh, hell. Not this again. "Is… Is this what it is?" he exclaimed incredulously. "Damn it, Sixer. Ya just always have to be the hero, huh? What, getting captured by this thing wasn't enough for ya?"

His brother shook his head in exasperation. "No, Stanley, that's not what I meant - "

"Like _hell_ that wasn't what you meant," Stan said through gritted teeth, stalking forward the few steps to his brother. "Our kids are risking their lives for us right now, and you just _had_ to go for the pointless sacrifice - because you don't trust anyone _else_ to do it, huh?"

"It's not about _trust_ -"

He grabbed Ford by the neck of his sweater and pulled him forward. "You know what, I don't know what I expe -"

Stan cut off immediately when his brother let out a muffled cry of pain, involuntarily spasming in his grip, and he loosened his grip with a mix of confusion and horror. Ford staggered back a few steps, shuddering. "Ford, I didn't mean to -"

"It's fine, Stanley. It wasn't you," Ford said through gritted teeth, movements jerky as he straightened back up. "This was Bill's torture. He was quite… fond of electricity, this time."

"Torture with _electri -_ " Stan repeated furiously. "You're telling me you've got electric _burns_ on ya - under your damned woolen _sweater_?"

"I didn't exactly - get an opportunity to self-examine," his brother said, just a tad sheepishly. "And, well, it isn't wool, actually. This material is derivative of - well, there is an animal that I found in Dimension 37 with remarkable similarities to the domesticated -"

"Jesus, Ford." Stan stared at his brother, his mouth suddenly desert dry, unsure of what to say next. " It ain't any of that synthetic stuff, at least… right?"

Ford shrugged. Stan swore in familiar frustration, dragging a hand through his fez-less hair. Typical. Just typical. "Alright, ya know what, Ford? Take off your damn sweater already, or _I'll_ do it for ya."

"Stanley, this plan of yours…"

He gave Ford a Look. "You know I will. I'm already standing in the middle of a demon pyramid prison in my underwear, alright? Take it _off_."

Ford stripped wordlessly, an aura of defeat around him… and when his brother pulled his sweater over his head, Stan saw red, both literally and figuratively.

"What - What did that thing do to you?" He demanded, a familiar burn of rage building at the pit of his gut as he took in the angry crimson burns on his brother's body… and the telltale raw sores of - his hands clenched bloodless white at his sides - _chains_.

He hadn't wanted to punch something so bad since Crampelter had given Ford a black eye in the second grade. And underneath those newer wounds…

His brother looked away, his hands hidden behind his back. "Like I said," Ford said without emotion, "he enjoyed seeing me - taken down a peg. Stanley, do you understand now? I'm not doing this to be the hero. I'm doing this because I'm the only one who can be sacrificed in this family. I was weak enough to fall for his flattery back then - I'm the reason for all this, and it's only right that I -"

"Yeah, _no_." Stanley looked at the old, old scars littered throughout his brother's body, and realized there was only one place where his brother could have gotten those. The cold wave of self-disgust washing over his body was stunningly familiar.

"…Hey, Sixer. Do you trust me?"

"Of course I -" Ford cut off, confusion in his voice. "Stanley, what are you getting at?"

"We both know this is the only real way we can take that _thing_ down. I'm asking ya if you trust me to carry this con through and save the kids."

"You - you know I do, but that's not - "

Stan's smile was mirthless. "Then, do you trust me to come back?"

Ford blinked, evidently unsure how to ask for elaboration.

"I gotta admit," Stan continued casually, "I know jack about how that memory gun of yours works. What I _do_ know is that I'm going to show a demon corn chip _exactly_ what happens when he messes with my brother, and I plan to remember givin' that bastard the ol' left hook for as long as I live."

He grinned. "And that's exactly what I'm gonna do."

The two brothers stared at each other for a long, quiet moment. Then, eerily simultaneously, they both broke into identical peals of helpless laughter - identical, but for the fact that Ford's sounded strangely like sobs.

"I - I'm sorry," Ford managed. "I have to admit, punching a dream demon is completely scientifically unfeasible. Yet, knowing you… "

He looked at Stan, helplessly fond, an odd note of desperate hope in his voice. "…You would manage it regardless."

That was as much of an answer as he needed.

"Pfft, _science_ ," Stan said dismissively, with a wave of a hand. "Hand me your pants, won't ya? I think there's gettin' to be a breeze in here."


End file.
